


WIP Prologue

by ellipeps



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Greaser!Dean, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3289394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipeps/pseuds/ellipeps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sits there, looking down at the beautiful dead man in his arms until the ambulance arrives, forcing him to let go. He pockets the strange amulet before they can take it from him, feeling it burn through the lining of his jacket and his T-shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning, when it says Major Character Death, that's what it is. So don't read if that's not your thing.

Dean knows he ain’t smart, that he ain’t something special. He has graduated high school, barely, and now he works with his father doing odd jobs here and there, fixing cars, paint jobs, some constructions. Everything and nothing. More nothing than everything these days, but he doesn’t complain. After the war things have been rough for everyone.

He had been three when his father left for the other side of the world to fight a war that seemed so impossibly distant Dean couldn’t believe it was actually happening. It still feels distant, even if they have the untold threats from the Russians hanging over their heads. He had been nine when his father returned home, physically undamaged, psychologically beyond repair. He had been ten when his mother died in a fire, doing nothing to help with his father’s slow recovery. The only thing John Winchester found comforting was the hard liquor or the occasional bar fight. How that makes him feel better is beyond Dean’s comprehension. Perhaps the purpose isn’t to feel better, but rather to feel nothing at all. Dean can understand that, he knows that feeling as good as anyone.

And now here he is, twenty years old, taking care of his father all alone, no one to help him. Sometimes he longs for siblings, but then again he doesn’t want anyone to go through the shit he’s been put through, ever. So perhaps it’s for the best that Mary and John only got one son. One shitty, unintelligent, greaser douche of a son who really wants to be a singer. And that not taking the fact that Dean has had a few adventures with some men in dark alleyways into account. Not that John knows about Dean’s preferences. No one does. God if anyone found out, that’d be feeding the local gossip for a long time.

“What are you thinking about, son?” John asks, effectively putting a stop to Dean’s daydreaming about desperate kisses and rough grinding in a dark corner smelling of smoke and whiskey. Dean snaps his head up and looks at his father sitting across from him on their usual shack, The Roadhouse, where Dean helps out sometimes. Mrs. Harvelle, the owner, sends them a look, as if to see if something’s up. Dean knows she just cares, but sometimes it’s too much, people caring about him. Or at least pretending to.

“Huh? Oh, nothing really,” Dean answers, taking a sip of his coke, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. He doesn’t know what else to say. The truth would get him killed, he knows that much. His father is a conservative if ever there was one. Dean can’t really understand why. He’s heard the stories about what men did during the war. The probability that his father had been one of those men weren’t that big, but when a man’s desperate…

“Don’t lie to me, Dean, I know you like I know the back of my hand, son. What are you thinking?” his father prods, and Dean sighs. He’ll have to settle for an almost-lie then.

“I was just thinking about perhaps getting the Elvis album when it comes out, if we get a turntable like we talked about-” he mumbles, actually telling the truth, partly. That’s just not the prime reason for wanting the Elvis album. He’s had a crush on him since the first time he saw the artist. It’s just not possible to look _that_ good. And sing like that on top of it. If only Dean could find someone like that…  Or if he could _be_ someone like that… Like Elvis or James Dean. Popular, talented, famous.

“You know what I think of that music, Dean. You shouldn’t listen to that, and you surely won’t play any Elvis under my roof,” his father interrupts. Dean just nods. Yeah, he knows. In the Winchester house all that ever plays on their 78 rpm gramophone is Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. Just because it had been his mother’s favorites. Dean is convinced that Mary would’ve loved Elvis. He had spent almost five years alone with her, only seeing his father for Christmas three of those years. So he ought to know.

They eat the rest of their meal in silence, Dean avoiding the looks thrown at him from his father as well as those from Mrs. Harvelle, and his father drinking two more beers, already starting for the day. As they’re sitting in their old ratty pickup half an hour later John finally snaps.

“Dean, I’ve told you. No Elvis, none of those stupid clothes, and that hair thing you’re doing. No one will ever think you’re respectable, and by default think that I’m unrespectable. So no more of that, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says automatically and self-consciously straightens out his white T-shirt underneath his black leather jacket. He knows his dad isn’t really a fan of the whole greaser thing, but Dean loves it. Ever since he saw _Rebel Without A Cause_ last year he’s been hooked, wanting that James Dean look. And to be honest, it looks good on him. He knows it does. But apparently it doesn’t look proper and it’s “impractical” or something. John would prefer it if he wore plain old blue jeans and plaid shirts, no tight jeans, no white shirts visible, his hair cut army style.

“Dean, I’m serious, I-”

John slams the breaks, but too late. The man crossing the street is too close, too slow, John is too slow, too fast at the same time and Dean sees it all in slow motion. A young man, around his own age, looks up and meets Dean’s eyes, a surprised look on his face, right before the fender hits him over the knees and sends him flying over the windshield, head cracking ugly against the glass. The car comes to a halt and the man slides down the hood, down on the street.

“Fuck,” Dean screams and he can’t breathe, can’t think. The blue eyes burned into his retinas, the sound of the man’s head hitting the glass of the windshield, the way he just collapsed. It’s all too much, it can’t be real. His father just killed a man. He let his father drive after drinking. He saw his father killing someone. How- What should he do now?

He looks over to his father who sits paralyzed by the wheel, gripping it so tight his knuckles turns white. Dean throws himself out of the car, he needs air. He stumbles out of the car and onto the street and takes a deep breath, which doesn’t help that much. Air, he needs air. He can’t breathe. His head hurts from when it hit the headrest, his hands ache after clutching the dashboard so hard he thought it might fall to pieces.

With his hands running through his hair, he turns around and sees the man lying in front of the car, blood trickling down the side of his face. Dean runs over and bends down and sees that the man is still breathing. Thank God. It’s the small things in life, right?

“Hey, just hang on, okay?” he says, moving to cradle the man against his chest, murmuring quietly, trying to be reassuring, like he’s seen mothers with their children. Dean looks down at the man, and now he sees he can’t be much older than Dean himself. A year, maybe two. He’s wearing a suit and a trench coat, not really Dean’s cup of tea, but it looks right on him. The man gasps and blinks a few times, opening his eyes slowly. They’re impossibly blue, like the summer sky or ocean or some shit like that. Dean has never seen anything like it. And he feels like he never has to search again for the definition of beauty. Looking into those eyes feels like coming home.

“Hey, you’re going to be fine now, alright?” Dean says, looking into blue eyes, can’t help the tears that start stinging in his eyes when the man gasps again and almost shakes violently in his arms.

“Are- are you- D-Dean Win-Winchester?” the man asks feebly, coughing up some blood that runs down from the corner of his mouth, meeting the stream of blood still running down from his temple. Dean nods and tries to stroke the blood away with his thumb, but it doesn’t help, it just keeps on coming. The man reaches to dig in his pocket, but his arm falls heavy to the ground again.

“How do you know my name?” Dean asks as he reaches into the man’s pocket, finding nothing but a piece of string. The man doesn’t answer with nothing other than a shudder and Dean pulls the string out of the pocket. On it hangs an amulet, an ugly face of sorts, with horns.

“That’s- f-for you, Dean, I’ve been- waiting a l-long time to g-give that to you,” the dying man says, and smiles faintly before his body goes lax in Dean’s arms and his head lolls to the side, resting against Dean, blood trickling down, colouring Dean’s white T-shirt red. Dean feels salty tears down his cheeks and a heavy body weighing him down where he sits uncomfortably, but he just can’t move.

He sits there, looking down at the beautiful dead man in his arms until the ambulance arrives, forcing him to let go. He pockets the strange amulet before they can take it from him, feeling it burn through the lining of his jacket and his T-shirt.


	2. Chapter 2

I've posted [One Of Us Is Gonna Die Young](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3625716/chapters/8005794), which will be the full story for this, so if you've subscribed to this, check that one out instead! (And if you did subscribe and/or left kudos here, THANK YOU! <3) 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prologue to one of my WIP's, but I'm not really getting anywhere. Thought I'd post this and see what you guys think. I've written 18k+ words (with Cas as an angel, so rest assured guys) but I'm sort of stuck. All comments are welcome!


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